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HARVEST-HOME. 



HARVEST-HOME 



BY 

SARAH HAMMOND PALFREY 

AUTHOR OF 

" PREMICES," " SIR PAVON AND ST. PA VON," " THE CHAPEL," 

"KING ARTHUR IN AVALON," ETC. 



Neque le ut mirelur turba, labores, 
Contentus paucis lectoribus. 

Horace. 



It is too late I — Ah, nothing is too late 
Till the tired heart shall cease to palpitate. . . 
The night hath not yet come ; we are not quite 
Cut ojff from labour by the failing light. 

Longfellow. 



BOSTON 
W. B. CLARKE COMPANY 

26 TREMONT STREET 






Copyright, iqij, 
By Sarah Hammond Palfrey 



THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A. 



#/M 



©CLA34747-5 



TO 
GEORGINA LOWELL PUTNAM 

AND 
GEORGINA LOWELL 

THESE POEMS ARE AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED 



PREFACE. 

"\ yfANY of these pieces have already appeared 
m in my previous volumes. 

For the sake of frankness, I must state that 
some of them are not without poetical license. 
Especially I warn the reader against looking 
into them too closely for my autobiography. I 
would rather offer them as mouth-pieces for 
"The Voiceless.'' 

The illustrations are from "Old Landmarks 
and Historic Personages of Boston," by Samuel 
Adams Drake. For kind permission to make 
use of them, my grateful acknowledgments are 
due to the proprietor and to Messrs. Little, 
Brown, and Company. 



CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Ode on Mortality i 

Pot age aux Pantoufles 2 

Political Economy 5 

The Fifer and Drummer of Scituate .... 9 

A Fantasy 14 

Evanishing 15 

Profit and Loss 16 

A Modern Briareus 20 

Shadows 21 

A Pruned Branch 23 

The Procession of the Days 26 

The Child's Plea 28 

The Doors of the Past 29 

The Light-House 3 1 

Two Wishes 33 

The Gray Nun 35 

Dolores 38 

Renunciation 40 

Gethsemane 41 

ix 



X CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Anna the Prophetess 43 

Dreaming and Waking 47 

THE CHURCHYARD. 

(Concluded from that in "King Arthur in Avalon") 

E. (D.) C 53 

Morrill Wyman 54 

C L. W '. 57 

F. (H.) Q 59 

L. (E.) L 60 

E. (R.) L 61 

SONNETS. 

The Shadow 65 

Broken Play-Things 66 

Sun and Comet 67 

The Statues of Day and Night 68 

The Shaw Monument 69 

Presence of Soul 70 

Strayings 71 

Lead and Gold 72 

The Gardener 73 

The Healer 74 



CONTENTS. XI 

PAGE 

Yearnings 75 

Peace; Be Still 76 

The Year of Deaths 77 

The Moulder 78 

Mourning and Morning 79 

The Lord's Supper 80 

PATRIOTIC. 

A Burnt Sacrifice 83 

Little Pepita 86 

The Old Home 89 

Boston Common 99 

She Says to Me, Says Ann 118 

Notes to Harvest Home 129 



ODE ON MORTALITY. 

[From Wordsworth, amended by an " advanced (?) Thinker." ] 

OUR birth is but a dream and a forgetting; 
The Dust that rises with us, our life's 
Star, 
Hath had elsewhere its setting, 
And cometh from afar. 
Not in entire forgetfulness, 
Nor wanting a fur travelling-dress, 
But trailing tails of monkeys, do we come 

From Protoplasm, our home. 
Menageries lie about our infancy. 
We are not what we were primordially. 
The laws of Evolution 
Work out much queer confusion. 
At length the Man, the soulless child of clay, 
Stands winking at the " new light " of the day. 



POT AGE AUX PANTOUFLES. 

A FABLE. 



T 



^0 the mighty king of France, 
Did the royal cook advance; 
And he louted low and said, " To his liege sinner, 
Please his majesty declare 
Whether I shall dress a hare, 
Dodo, unicorn, or phoenix, for his dinner? " 

With a glance that thrilled with awe, 
Quoth that haughty monarch, " Pshaw! 

What care I? Dress what you will, — dress my 
old slippers." — 
And the cook quaked, and withdrew 
Straight his roasting-jacks unto, 

His spits, and eke his dredging-box and dippers; 

And his majesty of France 
Hence betook him to the dance, 
To the " stately pavon and the swift coranto," 



POT AGE AUX PANTOUFLES. 3 

Then, forspent with whirl and hop, 
Bade the breathless minstrels stop, 
While the regal board, with hungry strides, he 
ran to: 

" Haste, what ho, my varlets all! 
For the tarrying banquet call, ,, 
So he called; and so they called, and served 
him rarely. 
" Now, what is this goodly stuff? 
Can I ever get enough? 
Help me, pantler, — yet again, — and not too 
sparely. 

" Ye, my courtiers, have a care, 
How ye taste the same, beware; 
For it might not suit a stomach less than 
royal, 
Being fitted for a king. 
Hie, ye knaves, and forthwith bring 
To the presence here, my cook so true anc" 
loyal. 



4 POT AGE AUX PANTOUFLES. 

" Cook," he thickly as he ate 
Cried, " what is this dainty cate, 

That 's so savoury, so luscious, and so tender? 
In what market was it bought? " 
kk Please your grace, 't was only wrought 

Of the slippers that you deigned to surrender," 

Spake the clicf, with modest pride. 

Not in vain his best he tried, 
For his sovereign long his praises went repeating; 

But it was his own good will, 

Sauces, spices, taste and skill, 
Which made all that in that dish was worth 
the eating. 

MORAL. 

Thus, generous Mr 

With your [metaphoric] lute, 
Don't you sometimes make a song that is de- 
licious 

Of what others have thrown off, — 

Pray, don't think I mean to scoff, — 
Of a substance that may be a wee suspicious? 



POLITICAL ECONOMY. 
By LE JUSTE MILIEU. 

And with new notions, — let me change the rule, — 
Don't strike the iron till it 's slightly cool. 

Oliver Wendell Holmes. 

IT^ING JAMIE the First, of the whimsical 
A ^ memory, 
Complained, when he sat on the high seat of 

judgment, he 
Was confused in his wits if compelled to hear 
Both sides at a law-suit, though naught could 

appear, 
While the first pleader pleaded, more lucidly 
clear. 

And thus it is still with our questions and 
causes, 
Our rights and our wrongs and our measures and 
lawses. 

5 



6 POLITICAL ECONOMY. 

Why, it never would be half so hard to decide 
If the rights and the wrongs would each stay 

on one side; 
But, instead of their keeping in separate order, 
They are jumping pell-mell o'er their vanishing 

border 
To mix themselves up! Then along comes the 

demagogue 
Primed ready for mischief; and finding all them 

agog, 
And good folks vis-a-vis, he contends for their 

votes, 
And sets them to fly at each other's loud 

throats. 
Then ill blood will flow; and, with much elocution, 
We are started to march towards a French 

Revolution. 

It strikes me, I own, that some masters are 
kind, 
Some workmen, alas! somewhat murderous in 
mind. 



POLITICAL ECONOMY. 7 

If " machines" do not grind out the right sort 

of stuff, 
I cannot quite see how it should be enough 
To poke "a big stick" in the wheels; if they fly, 
" Employees," with employers, are likely to die. 
Strong heads are much needed as well as strong 

hands, 
That business may thrive in all civilized lands; 
And " Capital" saves us from many a disaster, 
A very good servant, although a bad master. 

But if, like our poor puzzled king, we must look 
On opposite leaves in perplexed Justice's book, 
Ought not worthy millers to lay it to heart 
That their hirelings in welfare with them may 

have part, 
Their neighbours, their brethren? What saith 

Holy Writ? — 
" Oppress not a stranger." — Oh, were it not fit, 
While you care for your horse and your dog. 

that your men 
Should sleep in a place that is more than a den, 



8 POLITICAL ECONOMY. 

That their children should bloom and their 

wives should look glad, 
And a very magnanimous strife should be had, 
Not only whose stocks shall "pay up the best 

dividen's," 
But whose people shall be the best kept, — the 

best citizens? — 



THE FIFER AND DRUMMER OF 
SCITUATE. 

" A BBY, Abby, they 're a-comin'!" 

" Who 's a-comin? —What 's to do? "— 

"Oh, the British! An' there ain't a soul to 

home but me an' you! 
Job's gone courtin'. Noah's a-fishin'. All the 

neighbours be afar. 
Peep; — they're two great boat-loads, rowin' 

for our corn-ships at the bar! 
When they've took 'em,— what's to hender? 

— don't you s'pose they'll come right 

down, — 
Pike an' gun an' blood an' murder, — here an' 

rob an' burn the town?" 

"No, I don't, — not ef I'm spared; an' don't 
you have a chicken-heart. 
Le' me think; an' then I'll tell ye. Then we 
both must play our part. 

9 



10 THE FIFER AND DRUMMER OF SCITUATE. 

Becky, all we've ever got to mind, is jest to do 

our best. 
When it's done, we never needs to fear to leave 

to God the rest. 
Nobody can't die but once; an' ef our own turn 

comes to-day. 
Lot it find us at our dooty, an' then find us when 

it may. 
Though their swellin' hearts be mighty, — 

though each comes like ten times ten, — 
Say your prayers, an' jest remember Englishmen 

ain't naught but men. — 
I'll run round an' lock the house up; an' you 

scamper for your life 
Up the garret-stairs an' fetch us, to the barn, 

the drum an' fife. 
Make believe we're the milishy comin'; girls be 

good as boys — 
For some tilings, — folks need n't tell me, — 

jest as good to make a noise." 

Becky scampers. Abby fastens door and win- 
dow breathlessly. 



THE FIFER AND DRUMMER OF SCITUATE. II 

In her hurry puts the kitten in her pocket with 

the key, 
Calls the dog, and drives the cow in from her 

pasture, green and soft, 
To her stall, and, dragging Becky, scrambles up 

into the loft, 
Opens wide the great barn-window, seizes on her 

father's drum, 
Cries, "You keep the fife, dear Becky, — that's 

right, — sound like kingdom come! 
Think you've got the trump that Gideon blew 

against the heathen host, 
When the Lord's sword conquered Midian an' 

their princes' heads were lost. 
Won't the British lose their heads too? — 

Mebbe, if we keep our own." 
While she chatters, she is drumming till the 

grumbling roof doth groan. 

"Yankee Doodle," — "Hail, Columbia!" — 
pealed with many a deafening bout; 
Like a cherub's on a tomb-stone, Becky's dim- 
pled cheeks puffed out; 



12 THE FIFER AND DRUMMER OF SC ITU ATE. 

Abby's hazel eyes flashed lightning as her rapid 

sticks she plied. 
Marching still and countermarching to and fro, 

from side to side, 
O'er the soft gray hills and valleys of the clover- 
scented hay, 
Sounding like an army coming, up and down, 

from far away, 
Now through rich brown shadows went they, 

— lovely, lively Yankee girls, — 
Now an elm let stealthy sunlight in on fair and 

chestnut curls. 
Fifing, drumming, panting, stumbling, half in 

fright and half in fun, 
When they dared to reconnoitre, then they saw 

the British run: 
"Now 'The Rogue's March,' little sister,— 

louder! — louder! — let us play, — 
One more pootty piece of music jest to speed 

'em on their way." 

When the Sunset's gold and amber, wrought 
upon the cobwebbed gloom 



THE FIFER AND DRUMMER OF SC1TUATE. 13 

Of the straw-hung old barn-chamber, made it 

seem a tap's tried room, 
And their " folks" came home, each rafter o'er 

each little merry head 
Rang with peals of girlish laughter as they both 

looked down and said, 
''Brother, uncle, father, welcome! But a little 

late you're come; 
Scituate would now be taken, but for us, — an' 

fife an' drum!" 

Straight men knew the situation, ran the 

rescued ships to see, 
Thronged the barn-yard then and, shouting, 

gave the damsels three times three, 
Wild with mirth; and ever after, — oft as 

' ' General- training Day" 
Called the gallant lads of Scituate from the field 

and forge away, — 
'Neath the farm-house' twilight windows, fife 

and drum were duly played 
To those gallant maids of Scituate in memorial 

serenade. 



o 



A FANTASY. 

|N a day, as it befell, 
I was going to a well; 
And my bucket was of gold. 
Down in living waters cold 
Deep it sank; and lo! came up, 
In its stead, a drinking-cup 
All with sparkling jewels set, — 
How I wish I had it yet ! — 
But a thief in ambush lay, 
That stole it unawares away. 

Do ye ask me, how was this? — 
Childhood was my golden bliss, 
Youth, my goblet, rich, and rife, 
With the sweetest draughts of life. 
Time it was that stole my store 
And left me mourning evermore. 



14 



EVANISHING. 

OEEST thou joys? — They will not stay. 

^ Sorrows? — They shall pass away. 
Snatch the joys; for they anon, 
With thy sorrows, will be gone. 



15 



PROFIT AND LOSS. 



r 



'N a three-hilled town, of late, 
Lived Miss Clara Venable 
'Mid the saints and sinners all, 
She was most respectable, 



Paid her visits and her bills, 
Always wore a modish bonnet; 

Every grand subscription-list 
Bore her honoured name upon it. 

Death took Clara out to walk. 

(Solemnly was tolled her knell.) 
Where the many mansions stand, 

She must find a place to dwell. 

Soon a castle fair was seen. 

"Oh, is that for me?" she said; 
"T would be very suitable." 

But Death sadly shook his head: 
16 



PROFIT AND LOSS. 17 

"That's the Good Samaritan's. 

Hast thou ever heard of him?" 
"So I think, — some time in church, 

In a legend old and dim. 

"Did he not a stranger aid, — 
(Probably the worse for sin,) — 

And his charges pay o'er-night, 
In a very third-rate inn, 

" Give a little oil and wine, 

Money, — twopence at the most, — 
And commend him, going away, 

To the mercies of the host? 

"But yon palace?" "That belongs 

To a Jewish widow. She 
Once two mites, — one farthing, — cast 

In the Temple's treasury." 

Clara smiled: "An offering 

Somewhat small, — no doubt well meant." 
"Love thrown in," said Death, "it drew 

Many a myriad-fold per cent 



1 8 PROFIT AND LOSS. 

"In the Bank of Heaven." She laughed, 
"Such are their returns? Then mine, - 

Rich and liberal as I've been, — 
Must be something wondrous fine! 

"Hasten!" Death led on and on, 

Till to her dismay he came 
Down a low and crowded street, 

Stopped, and pointed to her name. 

"No!" she shrieked, "It cannot be! — 
On that mean and sagging door!" 

But he oped, and put her in. 
Well nigh sank she to the floor. 

But there was a wooden chair, 

Which, in happier days, would rock; 

Though one rocker now was gone, 
It sustained her 'neath the shock. 

When she found the strength to rise, 
Prowling, like a home-sick cat 

In a garret, through the rooms, 
Here a much dishevelled hat, 



PROFIT AND LOSS. 10. 

Hanging on a peg, she saw; 

Faded, thread-bare robes were there, 
Scraps of carpet moth-eaten, 

And some cracked, chipped crockery-ware, 

Granted to her neighbours' needs 
In the years gone by; the larder 

Boasted sundry crusts of bread, 
And some plates of bones scarce harder. 

Clara groaned aloud, and sobbed, 
As she wrung her empty palms, 

''Have I— have I— gained no more, 
By so many a bounteous alms! 

"Did I not my thousands give?" 

"Ay, indeed," said Death; "but then 

All thy costly works were wrought 
Only Ho be seen of men.'" 



A MODERN BRIAREUS. 



w 



HAT! More to do?" growls Neigh- 
bour Sands; 
*'I wish I had two pair of hands." 

Good neighbour, no more members crave; 
But duly use what hands you have; 
Two hands your honest bread to earn; 
Two hands dishonest gains to spurn; 
Two hands your vote to east aright; 
Two hands to hold your honour tight; 
Two hands to part a senseless brawl. 
Or save a weakling from a fall; 
Two hands to slip a stealthy alms 
Between a widow's toil-worn palms; 
Two hands to clear your wheat from tares; 
Two hands to lift in holy prayers; 
Two hands to lay, 'mid pain or loss, 
In faith upon a Saviour's cross; 

Two hands to knock, when life is past, 
At heaven's high gate, nor find it fast. 
20 



SHADOWS. 

Shadows we are; and shadows we pursue. 

Edmund Burke. 

VI ^HAT are the shadows gray that stalk, 
* Mimicking men in their daily walk? 
We hear them not, feel not, nor long we see, — 
Are they the ghosts that the men shall be? — 
Each idly glides to some darkling door, 
To vanish there, and appear no more. — 
Do they hide away in the grave and night, 
With their shady fellows to sleep or fight? 

We shall go after our shadows soon, 
No more to be seen by night or noon. 
Like them shall we go, and leave no trace 
On this earth where we ran our mortal race? 
Can our perishing hands find no work to do? — 
Our lips no utterances brave and true? — 
May our flitting motions weave no weft 
Of noble deeds, that shall long be left, 



22 SHADOWS. 

A legacy rich, from our life outworn, 
To the coming souls that shall still be born? 
When we hie to Death's open green-room door, 
Shall we quite go out, and our act be o'er? 

Oh, brother men, when your shadows you see, 
Think: How much is my shadow like to me? 



M 



A PRUNED BRANCH. 

He purgeth [i. e. pruneth] it. 

St. John xv. 2. 

"Y raiment is all of the purple pall, 
And the linen so fair and fine; 
And I eat the fat, and I drink the sweet, 
Whether I sup or dine. 

"The world smiles on me where'er I go, 
For its livery gay I wear; 
And I echo its laugh, to cover up 
The moan of a deep despair. 

"The mid-day sun shines cold on me, 
And my heart is a lump of lead; 
For the joy of my youth is fled from me, 

And the friends of my youth are dead." 

"Oh, lift up thy burden of lead, poor soul, 
At thy Saviour's feet to lay! 
Cast down there thy leaden load, brave soul, 
And, lightened, go on thy way. 
23 



24 A PRUNED BRANCH, 

"Why waste thy care on a cureless grief? 
Turn with others' griefs to deal; 
Others have wounds, as deep as thine. 

Which thou hast the power to heal. 

"Haste, for thy sun will soon go down 
The golden stairs of the sky; 
What matters though life were glad or sad. 
When thy turn doth come to die? 

" reach the widow's heart to sing for joy. 
And the orphan's tears to dry; 
And flash on the gloom of the prisoner's cell, 
With news from his house on high. 

° Haste, for thy day will soon run down 
The stairs of the sunset west ; 
And the sexton's spade shall the cool green sods 
Smooth over thy soothed, still breast. 

"Thou wilt thrill with the joy of a deathless 
youth. 
When thy Loved and thy lost ones come. 



A PRUNED BRANCH. 25 

Rushing to meet thy footsteps fleet, 

At the door of thy Father's home; 

"And, thankful for pruning which brought 
forth fruit, 
Thou before thy Lord shalt stand, 
And lay thy fruit at the Pruner's feet, 

With a kiss on the Pruner's hand." 



THE PROCESSION OF THE DAYS. 

CUNNY Days, stormy Days, 
^ Laughing Days, tearful Days, 

They lead us on the common ways, 

Where we've often been before, 

Some time to return no more. 

They are leading you and me 

Onward, where we cannot see. 

Dost thou mark, neighbour mine, 

They are a funeral train? 'T is thine, 

His and hers and ours. Together 

They bear us through all kinds of weather, 

Keeping pace, unto one goal, 

Where the body leaves the soul. 

Ceaseless is their march and steady, 

Whether we, or not, be ready. 

Somewhere, out of sight from here, — 

There waits the coffin, and the bier. 
26 



THE PROCESSION OF THE DAYS. 27 

And beyond? — What waits us then, 
When no longer breathing men? — 

Then may He Who, always calling, 
Still can keep us safe from falling, 
With a rapturous welcome greet 
Us before His mercy-seat, 
Without spot or blemish bring, 
And present to God, our King. 



B 1 



THE CHILD'S PLEA. 

ECAUSE I wear the swaddling-bands of 
Time, 

Still mark and watch me, 
Eternal Father on Thy throne sublime, 
Lest Satan snatch me. 

Because to seek Thee, I have yet to learn, 

Come down and lead me. 
Because I am too weak my bread to earn, 

My Father, feed me. 

Because I grasp at things that are not mine 

And might undo me, 
Give, from Thy treasure-house of goods divine, 

Good gifts unto me. 

Because too near the pit I creeping go, 

Do not forsake me. 
To climb into Thine arms, I am too low, — 

Father, take me! 
28 



r 



THE DOORS OF THE PAST. 

"N the Past's dark house, there are many 
black doors, 
With spring-locks and never a key. 
Beware lest one shut on a wrong unrepaired 
'Twixt a soul that thou lovest and thee. 

There are children there, calling in wild despair 
On parents and calling in vain, — 

On fathers whose hearts bound not for joy 
At the sound of their voices again, — 

On mothers who used to listen and long 
For the tread of their truant feet, 

To give them such welcomes as now nevermore 
Their belated returns regreet. 

There are husbands crying for brides and wives, 
With their tears undried gone in, 

Bequeathing to them, — oh, legacy drear! — 
All the ruth of the "Might Have Been." 
29 



30 THE DOORS OF THE PAST. 

There friends are seeking friends, ill-repaid, 
Out of hearing of penitent speech; 

And Dives gropes, in his burning pangs, 
After Lazarus out of his reach. — 

Christ, — Saviour, — Who, denied with an oath, 
To Thy servant in woe gave three 

Blest chances to pour from his bursting breast 
The true love that he bore to Thee, — 

Walk through the glooms of those haunted rooms, 
With that helpless, agonized band, 

And ope all those iron doors at last, 

With Thy pierced, omnipotent hand! 



THE LIGHT-HOUSE. 

i'ER waves that murmur ever nigh 
My window opening toward the deep, 
The light-house with its wakeful eye 
Looks into mine, that shuts to sleep. 



o 



I lose myself in idle dreams, 

And wake in smiles or tears or fright, 
According to my visions' themes, 
And see it shining in the night, 

Forever there and still the same; 

While many more besides me mark, — 
On various course, with various aim, — 
That light which shineth in the dark. 

It draws my heart towards those who roam 
Unknown, nor to be known, by me; 
I see it and am glad, at home, 

They see it and are safe at sea. 
31 



32 THE LIGHTHOUSE. 

On slumberous, thus, or watching eyes, 
It shines through all the dangerous night ; 
Until at length the day doth rise, 

And light is swallowed up of light. 

\ 

Light of the World, incarnate Word, 

So shin'st Thou through our night of time, 
Whom freemen love to call their Lord, — 
beacon steadfast and sublime! 

In temporal things, — grief, joy, or care, — 
Enrapt, we dream, but turn to Thee, 
And straightway where and what we are 
By Thine unfailing radiance see; 

And men of every land and speech, 
If but they have Thee in their sight, 
Are bound to Thee and each to each 

By countless threads of love and light. 

So be it till the end shall be, 

When Death beneath Thy feet shall fall, 
And, unto us as unto Thee, 

Thy God and Ours be all in all! 



TWO WISHES. 

" /^H, to die and be at rest, — 

^^ To sink beneath life's load, 
And to see, through closing eyes, 

Fade away its long, long road! — 
To turn from the Sphinx of Time, 

Putting fearful questions still, — 
In a mountain's leafy glooms, 

By the side of a purling rill, 
While yet the wild-flower blooms 

And the happy birds sing on, 
To lie and only know 

The peace of the dead and gone! " 

"Nay, to live! — to serve God and Man, 
With warm hand and a dauntless breast, 

Till the battle of life is won, 
And never to dream of rest 

Till the whole of thy work is done! — 

33 



34 TWO WISHES. 

To stand in the field and reap 
Till the Sunset has gone to sleep, 
And voices grow faint and few, 
And the blood runs chill in the dew, — 

Till the twinkling, beckoning stars are come, 
And clear sounds the Master's call, — 

Then to follow the last of thy comrades home 
With the fullest wain of all! " 



THE GRAY NUN. 

TO SISTER P , ON THE TWENTY-FIFTH ANNIVERSARY OF 

HER TAKING THE VOWS. 

A QUARTER of a century! 
^^ What beauteous tales must Memory 
Tell softly in thy modest ear, — 
Sure prophecies of glories near, — 
Of all that thou hast said and done 
Within that time, O good Gray Nun! 

Still on and on the days did glide 
With those who lived and those who died, 
And those who laughed and those who wept; 
But, while Time's dim sands downward crept, 
Thou told'st them off with holy deeds 
As with thy prayers thou told'st thy beads. 

This earth rolled 'neath thee. Many sought 
Its dazzling prizes. Many bought 
Power, fame, or gold, with peace worth more; 
Some baffled stood when life was o'er; 

35 



36 THE GRAY NUN. 

And some, for whom the sad bell tolls, 
Gained their whole world and lost their souls. 

While other maidens' happier hands 
Were warmly clasped in wedlock's bands, 
Thine tenderly the sick-bed smoothed; 
And, like a coming angel's, soothed 
Thy voice the sufferer; dying eyne 
Looked up to pitying tears in thine. 

No child of thine thy hearth might bless, 
Thou mother to the motherless; 
But fervently thine orisons 
Went up for Jesu's "little ones," 
By thee led safe from woe and shame, 
And taught to lisp His holy name. 

Oh, there are many gracious ways 
To walk in to our Father's praise, 
And ways more glad than thine; but yet 
Thy service, let us ne'er forget, 
Since thou didst don the shady hood 
To "go about" still "doing good." 



THE GRAY NUN. 37 

Sweet Sister, teach us too to feel 
The glow of thine own hallowing zeal, — 
To follow thee in loyal love, 
That, when at last we go above, 
Our welcoming Master us may call 
His faithful servants, one and all. 



DOLORES. 

For our light affliction, which is but for a moment. 

ii Corinthians iv. 17. 



D' 



,OLORES dreary, in funereal crape, 
Her haggard form perpetually doth 
drape, — 
(To show she cannot "yet our Lord forgive " 
For taking her beloved with Him to live?) — 
And groaneth oft amid her sighs and tears, 
"What years I have to live! — what long, hard 
years !" 

But to Dolores, I would gently say, 
Now dry thine eyes and see, — Dolores, nay, 
No mortal ever yet, since Time begun, 
Could e'er at once of years have more than one 
To live, betwixt the cradle and the grave, 
Nor in that year more than one month could 
have 

38 



DOLORES. 39 

One week within that month; that week within, 
Only one day for him could Clotho spin 
At once. She never had it in her power, 
Within that day to spin him but one hour, — 
One minute in that hour, — one second then, 
At once within that minute, in his ken. 

One second may be hard, — cannot be long. 
Take up thy sand-glass; oh, be strong, be strong! 
Thank God for fleeting life, and use it so 
That when thy years are ended, men shall know 
They all were blessings, nor shalt thou deplore 
Their number when, for thee, Time's years are 
o'er! 



N 1 



RENUNCIATION. 

TGHT is falling. Bells, they toll. 
Strained a-tiptoe stands a soul 
Whispering, where none else can hear, 
Softly in a Father's ear, 
"I was where I love to be, 
Growing what I strove to be. 
I'm where God ordains, I trust, 
To change to what He says I must. 
One day, I hope glad to be 
That all was as He bade to be. 



4 o 



GETHSEMANE. 

^HY Best-beloved, sent by Thee, 
Oh, God, went to Gethsemane; 
And while Thine angels heard Him pray, 
Stood Golgotha not far away! 



T 



We kneel before Thee. Like Thy Son 
We strive to say, "Thy will be done"; 
But oh, like Him, we also say, 
"Our Father, take this cup away!" 

With bitterest tears our eyes are wet. 
Our sun of happy life hath set — 
To rise not, save beyond the tomb? — 
Down on us shuts the night of doom. 

In Thine own time, — in Thine own way, 
Through darkness bring us into day. 
No light, no help, no hope we see; 
But miracles belong to Thee. 
41 



42 GETHSEMANE. 

Yet if this draught from which we shrink, 
May not pass from us ere we drink, 
We drain it and, in meek accord, 
Go by His path to find our Lord. 



ANNA THE PROPHETESS. 

And there was one Anna, a prophetess; . . . and she was 
a widow of about fourscore and four years, which departed not 
from the temple, but served God with fastings and prayers 
night and day. gT LuK£ {{ ^ ^ 

Know ye not that your body is the temple of the Holy 
Ghost? . . . Therefore glorify God in your body. 

i Corinthians vi. 19. 

OT. LUKE, the evangelist, left in his 
*^ history 
To us a legend most soothing and calm; 
Far off and dim, in its distance and mystery 
Down the long ages it sings like a psalm. 
Homilies oft have less weight with more heaviness; 
Much in few words to our spirits doth say, 
The old scripture that tells us how Anna the 
prophetess 
Served in the temple by night and by day. 

Through wedded bliss, from her innocent 
maidenhood 
Softly led on toward a saintly old age, 

43 



44 ANNA THE PROPHETESS. 

Then, through the shock and the anguish of 
widowhood, 
To the one shrine that her woe could as- 
suage, — 
First through the myrtles, and then through the 
cypresses, 
Up to the mountain where palms have 
their sway, — 
Hallowed and comforted, Anna the prophetess 
Served in the temple by night and by day. 

Veiled far within were the Ark and gold 
cherubim. 
Veiled in the Court of the Women was she, 
Seeing in visions heaven oped with its seraphim, 
Seeing by faith what her eye could not 
see. 
Trusting and teased by no vain, prying restless- 
ness, — 
Firm, with a foot that went never astray 
After forbidden ground, — Anna the prophetess 
Served in the temple by night and by day. 



ANNA THE PROPHETESS. 45 

Many a daughter of Zion in bravery 

Mincing abroad, tinkling, jewelled, and 
curled, 
Proudly the livery wore of her slavery 

Unto the prince of this perishing world, — 
Sought his delights with a greediness measureless. 
Seeking her God, — ever eager to pray, — 
In her dark weeds, awful Anna the prophetess 
Served in the temple by night and by day, 

Sneered cynic Sadducee. Large in phylactery, 
To the street-starers reftearsing his part, 
Flaunted the Pharisee, Moses' charactery 

Writ on his raiment and not on his heart, — 
Whitening the tomb of his inward unrighteous- 
ness, — 
Thee, Lamb of God, making ready to slay; 
While, in her lowliness, Anna the prophetess 
Served in the temple by night and by day. 

Till when, in swaddling-bands fashioned by 
mortal hands, 
Laying the glories aside of His home, — 



46 ANNA THE PROPHETESS. 

Leaving His Sire, — to reclaim our low, tare- 
sown lands, 
The Prince of the Universe bowed Him to 
come, 
He in his infant grace to the meek votaress 

Came, in His mother's soft arms as He lay, 
Where, at her post suitress, Anna the prophetess 
Served in the temple by night and by day. 

Low lies the temple that towered o'er Jeru- 
salem; 
But in another not built by men's hands, 
Where hallelujahs succeed to the requiem, 
Anna the prophetess jubilant stands. 
Still, hour by hour, Father, us with this blessing 
bless, 
So to serve Thee in our temples of clay, 
That we, when they fall, may, with Anna the 
prophetess, 
Serve in Thy temple of ne'er-nighted day! 



DREAMING AND WAKING. 

OR in the body or without, — 
But which, I did not think or know, 
My soul toward eve, in dread and doubt, 
Toiled in an Alpine waste of snow. 

A throne whereon sat nodding Death, 
The avalanche o'erhung the pass; 

And oft athwart it yawned beneath, 
The blue-lipped, hungry, sly crevasse. 

Where led that pass, I could not see, 

But saw no other, far or near; 
Nor gaped its rifts alone for me, — 

For fellow-travellers far more dear! — 

Then leaped the ready ruin down! 

It leaped upon them ! One by one 
Each lurking pitfall claimed its own, — 

Each voice gave out its dying groan. 

47 



48 DREAMING AXD WAKING. 

All help was vain, where help was nigh. 

They vanished out of human sight. 
In vain to grope, — in vain to cry ! — 

Alone I walked to meet the Night, — 

Alone with but the stillness bleak, 

The overhanging precipice, 
And snows that 'neath my feet did creak 

Along the ice-edged near abyss. — 

Anon upon me, swift and sure, 

The mass of frozen darkness rushed 

With weight no mortal could endure, — 
Endure and breathe, — and I was crushed. 

But was not stunned. The shock struck out 
My spark of life more quick and keen. 

My eyes, — I knew not they were shut, — 
Unclosed upon another scene: 

Beside my safely pillowed head, 
'Mid myrtles, roses stood in bloom; 

And household embers glimmered red 
Before me in a cosy room. 



DREAMING AND WAKING. 49 

A bright white hand caressing strayed 
An organ's answering keys along, 

Light as the sun on Memnon played; 
A sweet voice sang a holy song. 

No more to weep, no more to roam, 
I rose to move with fearless tread, 

In light and warmth and peace and home. 
The waiting evening meal was spread; 

Above, a happy lamp was lit, 

That long my evening-star had been; 

And those for whom my eyes were wet, 
By different doors came cheerly in. 

Among them seated at the board, 

I told my dream to make them smile, 

Without a single solemn word ; 

But of myself I asked mean-while : 

" That certain stroke which all men dread, 
Doth it destruction, thus, but seem? 

There is a ' Waking from the dead ' ; 

Hath not our life been called a Dream?" 



THE CHURCHYARD. 

{Concluded from that in "King Arthur inAvalon." ) 



G 



E. CD.) C. 
December 12th, 1901. 

OOD night to her. — That radiant be- 
ing? — Nay. 
Good night to us; but unto her, good day! 
Good day to her, though aged, in her prime 
Called up into eternity from time, 
To hear, for what she wrought beneath the sun, 
The blessed words, "True handmaiden, well 

done," 
And, freed from limitations of the clay, 
To fill with higher works a longer day. 

Good night to us, — as at a wake, who weep, 
While one after another falls asleep ; — 
For unto us her cherished memory 
Should as a ministering angel be, 
To strengthen us till we, like her, are sure 
That they are happy, nobly who endure. 

53 



MORRILL WYMAN. 

January 30TH, 1903. 

AY the worn-out form to rest. 
"^ Yield the spirit to the blest, ■ 
Blest, more blessed that he's come 
To them in their Father's home. 
Let us weep, but not repine, 
Grieved, — submissive, — to resign 
Him, who hath so long been known, 
Friend and servant of the town. 
Better for him, ere decay 
Stole his keen, rare mind away, 
That he from us should have passed 
Thus, himself unto the last. 

But how vacant seems each street, 
Where we him no more may greet, 
Omnipresent on his round 
Of eager duty, gay, profound, 

54 



MORRILL WYMAN. 55 

Cautious, kindly, strong, and true, 
Doing what God bade him do! 
Oh, what memories endear 
That faithful toil of fifty year! 
Meeting him, at morn, alway 
Gave fresh brightness to the day, 
Or when clocks cried out the hour 
Of noon from many a hot church-tower, 
Or when cooling twilight came, 
Quenching summer's day-long flame. 

So, in many a well-known place, 
We saw him; but he knew the face 
Of street and square and lane as well, 
When tolled lone the midnight bell, — 
How they looked in star-light cold, 
Moonlight, ghastly to behold, 
Rain and sleet and snowy storm, — 
While we sheltered lay, and warm. 

Now no more the sufferer's ear 
His soft and longed-for step shall hear. 



56 MORRILL WYMAN. 

Now it is his turn to sleep. 
May the rest be calm and deep, 
Of his weary mortal frame. 
May his Master call his name, 
And his ready spirit wake, 
Glad to see upon it break 
All the glory of a day 
That shall never pass away. 



I 



C. L. W. 

December 8th, 1903. 

"N fulness of your years, good-bye, good 
friend; 

Your happy course has found its happy end. 
In sad procession on our lonely track, 
Lonelier we fare, but would not call you back, — 
We, who were many when your "life was new," 
Old friends and neighbours, — now so strangely 

few! 
Your all-day service has earned rich reward ; 
Go, and receive it from your welcoming Lord. 

Go unforgotten. In our pensive walk, 
Not sadly always, still of you we talk 
And say, "How bright and noiseless, like the 

sun, 
She went her daily round of duty done ! 
She sought not any path less safe, less sweet, 
Than heaven had laid before her ready feet. 

57 



58 L. L. W. • 

On her, mild Nature lavished for her dower 
No dazzling gifts of rash, eccentric power. 
While others all their straining strength em- 
ployed 
For prizes oft unwon, or unenjoyed, 
She reigned content upon a household throne, 
Parent to many children not her own, 
And sought and gained the goods that satisfy, 
In graces rich that cannot fail or die." 



F. (H.) Q. 

December iith, 1903. 

TVLEAK is the sunshine, black the day! 
Fairy, — Fairy — is gone away! 
Her autumn glowed with its richest fruit; 
The sudden axe came down on the root. 



Friend to how many, for many a year, 
Helpful and hearty, leal and dear, 
Mother and wife, — oh, we cannot see 
How the angels can need her more than we! 

Speak to the mourners, " Peace; be still. 
Wiser than ours, is our Father's will." 
Short may the parting be. Who can say 
How long her dearest are doomed to stay? 

Heart-strings are strong to draw above 
Those who are left by one they love; 
So let ours raise us, until we come 
Safe unto her in her Saviour's home! 

59 



L. (E.) L. 

November 6th, 1904. 

/IB LUCE parted, hearts their ache 
must bear. 
Her sunset here is but her sunrise there. 
We saw her grown, while life upon her smiled, 
The radiant woman from the radiant child. 
Let us behold her, with the eye of faith, 
A radiant spirit, through the mists of death, 
Till tardy Azrael shall grant us grace 
To see her shine transfigured, face to face. 



60 



N° 



E. (R.) L. 

November 17TH, 191 1. 

more! Where'er she went, 
She shed a brightness round her 
like the sun; 
How many hearts are rent 
Of those whose sunny days with her are done ! 

Noble, of noble race, 
Instinct with fire, nor woe nor age could quench, 

She looked Death in the face, 
Meeting him suddenly, and did not blench. 

Gracious was she, and sweet, 
A joy unto God's children rich and poor; 

Worshipped and rare and fleet, 
Too swift she vanished through the shutting 
door. 

61 



62 E. (R.) L. 

Too swift ! There was no time 
For dear farewells. Our souls forsaken cry, 

Like to a funeral chime, 
After her through the void, " Good-bye, good- 
bye!" 

She left behind on earth 
An empty place ne'er to be filled again; 

But heaven is for our dearth 
The fuller; heaven at last will heal our pain, 

If only we are still 
Through all by Him, the Man of Sorrows, led, 

Who went before to fill 
His Father's mansions with the blessed dead. 



SONNETS. 



T 



THE SHADOW. 

For our days on the earth are [i. e., our life on the earth 
is] as a shadow. x Chronicles xxix . IS . 

k HE traveller walking early from the 
east 

Sees his long shadow stretching far before; 
But, while his eyes on varied prospects feast, 
He marks not how it shortens more and more; 
Nor, pushing onward, does he think or know, 
While mid-day burns, how stealthy, mute and 

fleet, 
Behind him toward his starting-point to grow, 
It, dwindled, slides beneath his hastening feet. 
Well spake the Shepherd-King: Thus, in our 

dawn 
And in the glare and hurry of our noon 
And when our lagging day is almost gone, 
Our life is as a shadow. Lo, how soon 
The long to-morrow, that before us lay, 
Behind us runs, a dim, long yesterday! 
65 



BROKEN PLAY-THINGS. 



A 



FAR-FAMED man, — he was a 
father, — said 
That a child's grief o'er broken play-things was 
A sight he could not bear; and great tasks spread 
Before him, cheerfully, for such a cause 
He left, and mended little toy and heart. 
Dear Father, God, art Thou less pitiful? 
How oft in older years it is our part 
To weep o'er broken play-things! Heedless, dull, 
We've played with chances, friendships, time, 

and powers. 
We cannot mend our past; and, if forgiven, 
Still grieve we for the bliss of sweet lost hours. 
'T is not enough for us, to hope for heaven. 

Stoop down to us; and mend our broken toys. 

Restore our childish souls their olden joys ! 



66 



o 



SUN AND COMET. 

TENDER hearts and prone to love, 
take heed! 

The power that draws you may be not benign, — 
That draws you onward with such headlong 

speed, — 
Nay, the more mighty, all the more malign. 
Behold, the splendid sun doth shine — and 

glare ! — 
The comet, from the viewless void of space, 
Rushes to meet him with an answering flare, 
But, — coming near to see him face to face, — 
Surcharged with strong repulsion, flees as fast 
To hide in loneliest ether. Ere your fate 
Be sealed, remember, Passion may not last. 
Beware, beware and ponder; lest too late 
Your wedlock prove a fiery martyrdom, — 
A dirge be your epithalamium. 



67 



THE STATUES OF DAY AND NIGHT 
BY MICHAEL ANGELO. 



D 



|EAD Florence' deathless son, grand 
Angelo, 

How one wide thought of ahVer-shadowing gloom 
Can fix both Night and Day upon a tomb, 
Whose dust by both is mourned for, taught by 

Woe, 
Thou teachest us! — when the too early light 
Breaks in with garish mockery of distress, 
Upon the sickened soul, and worn-out Night 
May bring faint dreams, but not forgetfulness. 
A patriot's thought hast petrified, to peer 
Darkling through thy translucent stone for 

aye? — 
So sad the Night, so looketh blank and blear 
The lusty, busy face of dazzling Day, 

When a land's life, enshrined in mortal clay, 
With one man's breath, has passed from earth 
away. 

68 



THE SHAW MONUMENT. 

QT. GAUDENS' wondrous elegy in bronze 
^ Hallows to holy ground the gazing street, 
And bids us haste to pay sad orisons, 
As 't were to put the shoes from of! our feet, 
(If we are worthy to behold and feel 
Youth, faith, and righteousness and death and 

doom,) 
And in ennobling humbleness to kneel, 
Then rise and follow to, and through, the tomb. 
Oh, let us linger near till we have made 
Some emulous consecration of the soul 
To press henceforth, unboastful, unafraid, 
Guided by Duty, towards her unseen goal, 
As march forever here in love and awe, 
These straining soldiers of the martyr Shaw. 



6 9 



PRESENCE OF SOUL. 

And what I say unto you, I say unto all, Watch! 

St. Mark xiii. 37. 

PRESENCE of mind? — 'T is good; but 
rather give 
Presence of soul to us, that we with eyes 
Awake and on the watch may ever live, 
To take the fateful moments by surprise. 
The chances of our lives, they come and go. 
Then they are gone and will not come again; 
And men may, through the tears of bitterest woe, 
Look after their lost beauty, and in vain. 
As the stanch sentinel stands on his guard, 
And ready with the watchword for the call 
Of his inspecting captain, — though blow hard 
The storm, — 'mid mortal life's grim changes all, 
Let us with the great thought, great deed,, 
great word, 

Be ready aye for Thee, Christ our Lord! 
70 



STRAYINGS. 

That it may please thee to raise up those who fall. 

The Book of Common Prayer. 



A : 



S the fond mother runneth from her 
home, 

Along the common ways, to find her child, — 
That ever and anon from her will roam, 
By folly, though it loves her well, beguiled, — 
Snatcheth it up and cries, "And did you fall 
And hurt yourself? The robe I put on you 
At morn so fresh, is torn and sullied all ! 
But you shall have one whole and fresh and new " ; 
Oh, heavenly Father, in Thy pity thus 
Seek Thou Thine offspring in their faults or 

crimes ! 
Have we not from Thee strayed, — the best of 

us, — 
And hurt ourselves not once, but many times? 
Lift Thou us up; and clothe us in the dress, 
Glistering and white, of Jesu's holiness. 
71 



LEAD AND GOLD. 

"PETTY and paltry, baffled, beggared, all 

My life is sunk in nothingness," I said; 

"From day to day a grovelling, earth-bound 

thrall, 
My gold forsook, I delve for others' lead. 
And glitter still the rifts of Helicon! 
The diver yet grows rich in Hippocrene, 
Whence I, too, brought some ingots once that 

shone, — 
Now dimmed with years and tarnished of their 

sheen!" 
Answered my King, "Thy fellow-servants' lot, 
Scorn'st thou to share. Love is the mystic stone 
That changeth lead to gold. And why should 

not, 
As well by thee as by another one, 

Mirk mines be wrought? Dost thou grudge 

time to Me? — 
To Me, Who give eternity to thee!" 
72 



I 



THE GARDENER. 

DREAMED a gardener, in a garden 
fair, 
Sought long from tree and vine and bush to 

bring 
A basketful of fruits all rich and rare, 
To offer it in triumph to his king. 
The show was brave; but, when he touched and 

scanned, 
One, seeming sweet, was scarcely sound or firm; 
One, glowing bright, was hard unto his hand; 
This, soiled with earth; that, channelled by the 

worm. 
Unripe or marred were all, where'er he came. 
He wrung his hands and wept and turned away 
And blamelessly, in men's eyes, bore the blame, 
And left his offering for another day. 

Oh, God, my God, our King, and can it be?— 
Is Christ the Gardener? — and the fruit are we? 



73 



THE HEALER. 

And he healed them that had need of healing. 

St. Luke ix. n. 



o 



|H, happy sufferers, unto whom their 
pain, 

Though sorest pain, such meed of healing won! 
heavenly Father, send to earth again 
To those who languish still, Thy blessed Son! 
Look on the wounds Death's cruel hand doth 

leave 
On those he leaves behind, — on calm, brave eyes, 
That shed no outward tears, of those who grieve 
O'er hurts unguessed until the victim dies, — 
Wounds of old friendship wronged and true love 

spurned. — 
Thou see'st in secret; see the springs of hope 
Into the dry mirage that mocks hope, turned. 
See Adam's scars, too apt afresh to ope. 
Thou, Who of yore for us wert sacrificed, 
We all have need of healing, O Lord Christ! 

74 



YEARNINGS. 

'"pHOU Who art great, look on our 
A littleness, 
That strives so hard to rise itself above, 
And wastes its weakness, breaks its brittleness, 
And struggles idly like a wounded dove, 
That looks up to the sky and fain would soar, 
And fluttering flaps its broken wing with pain, 
And only languishes and bleeds the more. 
Let us not look unto Thy heaven in vain, 
With baffled yearnings. As some kind leech will 
Out of the dust some petty sufferer take, — 
Hurt bird or beast, — and spend on it his skill, 
And make it well for his own goodness' sake, 
Though it can give him neither fame nor fee, 
So let Thy pity work for us with Thee. 



75 



PEACE; BE STILL. 

In quietness and in confidence shall be your strength. 

Isaiah xxx. 15. 



1 



TOILED. My tools were taken from 
my hand. 
I sought for more, and straightway was laid 

down. 
" What shall I do? " I sobbed. Then saw I stand 
O'er me my Master; and, without a frown, 
Thus did He pitying answer me, "Be still. 
This is thy time to bear, and Mine to do 
To thee, and in thee, all My holy will. 
And what I do, to-day thou canst not know; 
But thou shalt know hereafter," said my Lord; 
"On thee, not by thee, must My work be 

wrought.'' 
And thereupon some echoes of the Word, 
That with a keenly hearkening ear I caught, 
After hard struggles brought me peace at 

length : 
"In quietness and trust shall be thy strength." 
76 



A 1 



THE YEAR OF DEATHS. 

LL ye whose hearts henceforth must 
buried lie 

In the most sacred earth of some dear grave, 
Now that this Year of Deaths has hurried by, 
What joy, what hope, what comfort can we 

have? — 
"What joy?" — Nay, that the dead in Christ 

arise, 
And that our heavy sorrow is not theirs, — 
That God doth wipe all tears from their loved 

eyes, 
And to thanksgivings turn their patient prayers. — 
"What comfort?" — That the time henceforth 

is short. — 
"What hope?" — While we are waiting, to fulfil 
Their and our Father's will in such a sort 
That we may be scarce parted, but until 
Our death is hid with theirs beneath the sod, 
Our life be hid with theirs, with Christ in God. 

77 



THE MOULDER. 

npHE Moulder takes into his hands the 
clay, 
And firmly kneads and shapes it to his will, 
Intent with hard unsparing toil; away 
He pares the boss, and up the gap doth fill; 
Until the perfect image of his thought 
At length comes forth unto his gladdened eye. — 
Moulder of souls, thus be Thy wonders wrought 
In tear-wet stuff of our humanity. 
Take Thine own way; and use what tools Thou 

wilt. 
Thou hast to deal with cold ingratitude 
And very hollow love and forward guilt; 
But with Thee all is possible of good. 

Unmake and make us till, when all is done, 
We stand complete in likeness to Thy Son! 



78 



MOURNING AND MORNING. 

Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the 
morning. 

Psalm xxx. 5. 



T 



43E little boy who did what was not 
good, 

Is put to bed in penitence and tears. 
He "did not mean to!" But unto his mood 
The night is black, — the darkness full of fears. — 
He opes his brightening eyes from sleep's eclipse 
Anon, to find new light, new love, new bliss, 
And feels upon his cheek his mother's lips, 
That chide no more, but smile on him, and kiss. 
Oh, tender Father, when the last night falls 
On us, Thine erring, ruing children, so — 
When we shake off our winding-sheets and palls, 
Let a blest morning follow on our woe! 

We did not will to fall so far from grace; 

Be all forgotten, save Thy loving face ! 

79 



I 



THE LORD'S SUPPER. 

"T is the Feast of feasts, and we are bidden ! 
In sacred stillness, lo! the altar spread, — 
By Christmas greens half in the chancel hidden, — 
Chalice and patine, holy wine and bread ! 
We are not worthy. Maker, oh, remake us ! 
With our hearts, feel Thy feelings. With our 

brains, 
Think Thine own thoughts. To live Thy strong 

life take us 
With our weak souls upon these earthly plains. 
Speak, with our tongues, Thy words; and do 

Thine errands 

With our glad feet, where'er Thy love would send 

To aid our brethren on want's barren lowlands. 

Do, with our hands, Thy work. To our life's end, 

Let us be temples of the Holy Ghost, 

And faithful soldiers of Christ's human host. 

80 



PATRIOTIC 



My country, 't is of thee, 
Sweet land of liberty, 
Of thee I sing. 

National Song. 



Our country, right or wrong. When right, to be kept 
right; when wrong, to be set right. 

Carl Schurz. 



A BURNT SACRIFICE. 

"CHE was only a negress." Well, 

She was just, perhaps, what God made 
her; 
But the knife, the screw, and the fire, 

As they would have done us, dismayed her. 
"Her crime?" In his sorest strait, 
She stayed at her husband's side, 
In the place that belongs to a wife; 
And without complaint, she died. 

"And what had he done?" — Who knows? 

Without any form of trial, 
Whatever the rights of a case, 

There is not much room for denial. 
He fought with another man. 

'T was the other man who fell; 
But which was the man to blame, 

Might be somewhat hard to tell. 
83 






84 A BURNT SACRIFICE. 

"But the prisoners' skin was black.' ' 

Can you tell us what was the colour 
Of the souls of those who made game 

Of their grisly pangs and their dolour ?- 
At any rate, slayers and slain 

Were alike of our native land; 
And the outrage and burning shame 

Fell on us as a blasting brand; 

When straight, for an offering meet 

To Satan, was builded an altar; 
Human victims were cast thereon, 

By hands that knew not to falter, — 
If this story should proceed 

In words of the tongue or pen, 
Could you bear to hear or to read, 

Fellow women, or fellow men? — 

There 's a stain, that will not out, 
In the scutcheon of our nation! 

There 's a taint on our race and name ! 
There's a sentence of damnation 



A BURNT SACRIFICE. 85 

In Vengeance's thunderous mouth; 

And, if up to God we look, 
In our horror and grief, there 's a blot 

At our place in His judgment-book! 



LITTLE PEPITA. 

ITTLE Pepita was shot, to-day, 
■^ Running along the sunny street. 
The ball was more fleet than her nimble feet, 
Flying the poor little girl to slay. 
Oh, little Pepita was shot, to-day! 

Little Pepita was shot, to-day. 

Out she ran in the wonted street, 

As she had often run to meet 
Some little neighbour for laughter and play; 
But little Pepita was shot, to-day. 

Little Pepita was shot, to-day; 

Dancing along with a skip and a hop, 

A sentinel spied her and bade her to stop; 

She was frightened, perhaps, and she dared not 
stay; 

So little Pepita was shot, to-day. 

86 



LITTLE PEPITA. 87 

Little Pepita was shot, to-day. 

Down she fell in the well-known street, 
Her innocent life, — so short and so sweet, — 
Bleeding and sobbing and gasping away, 
When little Pepita was shot, to-day. 

Little Pepita was shot, to-day. 

Dancing and skipping, she'll bound no more 
Into her home, through the waiting door, 

For kisses and hugs, — so loving and gay, — 

For little Pepita was shot, to-day. 

Little Pepita was shot, to-day. 

Her doll looks for her with waxen eyes, 
Smiling on, while her mother cries, 

And her father sits staring, turned haggard and 
gray, 

Whose little Pepita was shot, to-day. 

Little Pepita was shot, to-day. 
Tearfully down on her tiny bed, 
Her cold little form, — so still and so dead! — 



88 LITTLE PEPITA. 

While a grave is a-making, tenderly lay; 
For little Pepita was shot, to-day. 

Little Pepita was shot, to-day. 
Up in the high and holy place. 
Her angel beheld Christ's Father's face, 
His little ones watching forever and aye, 
When little Pepita was shot, to-day. 

Little Pepita was shot, to-day. 

Such is the work that our Boys in Blue, 
We send to the ends of the earth to do? 

God help us, — pardon us, dare we to say? 

When little Pepita we shot, to-day! 



THE OLD HOME. 

Plain living and high thinking. 

Wordsworth. 

' I A HE old Home from the homestead goes 
slowly dragged away; 
Cold hearth and bridal-chamber stand open to 

the day. 
The tiles around its chimney are cracked or 

cleft in twain. 
No more shall tap the cherries for entrance at 

its pane. 
The elms its founders planted no more shall 

stroke its face 
With old familiar shadows; but o'er its empty 

place 
Their great boughs hang forlornly. The honey- 
suckle lies 
Along the ground; and vainly to find its porch 

she tries 

89 



90 THE OLD HOME. 

With sadly groping tendrils, upon her earthly 

bed, 
Like blind men's ringers searching the features 

of the dead; 
(Not as once, when her clusters had sweetened 

all the air, 
Her leafy wreaths entwined to screen a youthful 

pair 
From prying of the moon-beams, lest any man 

should guess 
That one said softly, "Will you?" and one 

more softly, "Yes," 
Before the banns were published and all the town 

might know, — 
The last old pair that lived here, — and died, 

not long ago. — ) 

Who chose those quaint wall-papers, now 
bleaching in the rain? 
Who hewed those sound old rafters, whose 
strength is now in vain? 



THE OLD HOME. 91 

(Which roofed the good great-grandsire, 't is 

said, the very night 
Before he took that musket and died at Concord 

fight.) 
Had any seer foretold them, their work would 

thus be brought 
To naught by their own offspring, what had they 

said or thought? 

The tortoise-shell grimalkin no more her 

haunts doth know, 
But runs 'twixt loft and cellar, distracted, to 

and fro. 
A piteous genius loci, she seems. Poor puss, 

believe 
That many a one besides thee will see this 

sight, and grieve. 

Ne'er henceforth shall we linger, in passing, 
to behold 
The gambrel-roof and lean-to, two hundred 
summers old, 



92 THE OLD HOME. 

Amid the verdure rearing their venerable gray, 
Nor well, that won the traveller so often from 

his way, 
'Neath apple-trees whose blossoms were mirrored 

deeply down, 
Nor wall so rich with mosses beneath its bar- 
berry crown, 
Nor elders nodding o'er it upon the grassy bank, 
'Mid thimble-berries sable, and blackberry- 
brambles rank. 

Where crowd the luscious lilacs, unconscious, 

blooming yet, 
Where hollyhocks, with blushes, displayed each 

gay " rosette," 
Will come with Latin labels, exotics fine and new, 
And snaky " ribbon-borders " where the dear 

wild-roses blew. 

While soon, as if Aladdin had rubbed his 
rusty lamp, 
Some queer " Queen-Ann tic " mansion herein 
shall rise and ramp, 



THE OLD HOME. 93 

Or, — battlemented, — donjoned, — some much 

misplaced chateau 
Stand, looking quite confounded, the maimed 

trees below, 
'Mid very home-sick statues, right piteous to 

behold, 
Not clad to suit our climate, exposed to catching 

cold. 

'Tis true, "'tis not my funeral"; and he 

must have his way; 
But unto Mr. Newgent, my lips are fain to say, 
Oh, neighbour, shall you like it yourself, when 

all is done, 
When all that you were used to, beyond recall, 

is gone? 
How full it was of Memories, that house where 

you were born, 
That started up to greet you, at even, noon, or 

morn! 
Will they come back, when you come, in fine 

new rooms to dwell, 



94 THE OLD HOME. 

Sweet half-forgotten stories of early days to tell, 
Of parents, brethren, comrades, and wholesome 

country ways, 
And boyhood's joys and sorrows, and simple 

work and plays? 
Were 't not enough, a nabob to be for half the 

year 
In town, and a refreshment to find your old 

self here, 
A child among your children, — to let them see 

that Health 
And Happiness their dwelling may have apart 

from Wealth? 

Will there be no more raking, nor riding, in 

the hay, 
But girls upon their toes all night, and on their 

backs all day; 
No harvestings or huskings, no nuttings in the 

wood, 
No milkings in the meadow, no giving chicks 

their food, 



THE OLD HOME. 95 

No scramblings in the barn-loft to find the new- 
laid eggs, — 

But serving-men in livery, with boots like 
wooden legs? 

" These things are trifles"? — May-be; but 

others lurk behind, 
And 'mid them, not so trifling, — lie heavy on 

my mind. — 
I cannot love such fashions as Satan seems to 

plan 
To set up as a barrier 'twixt heart of man and 

man, — 
On one hand weakening luxury, self-pampering 

sloth and pride, 
Servility and envy upon the other side; 
And, as I mark the changes that creep in year 

by year, 
Though all be not momentous, I fear that worse 

are near, — 
"Columbia" masquerading with Europe's worn- 
out dress, 



96 THE OLD HOME. 

Her jealous, dangerous labour, her perilous 

idleness, 
Her races, hunts, and gambling, her beggary 

and crimes ! — 
God grant I read not truly some signs of these 

our times ! — 

Our dear old home, New England, and you 

her sister States, 
What goal, unseen but ready, your onward 

march awaits? 
Shall we, whose sires shook from them the yoke 

of monarchy, 
Have sham republics acting sham aristocracy? 
Look to your ways betimes, lest, among the 

nations all, 
Your greatness give momentum unto your 

greater fall. 
'T is yours to choose. Before you still open, is 

the road 
Cleared by the loyal elders in truth to Man and 

God. 



THE OLD HOME. 97 

Climb there to rear such Freedom as ne'er the 

world has seen, 
Such glad and general Welfare as never yet has 

been, 
A pure and hardy Manhood, aglow with inbred 

zeal, 
In generous self-devotion to serve the common 

weal, 
Where each one his own doings, shall rule by 

righteous laws, 
And rich and poor, like brothers, maintain each 

other's cause. 
Or take the downward turn toward the mines 

of sordid Pelf, 
Where every man, in choke-damp, gropes blindly 

for himself, 
His hand against his neighbour's. Then straight 

upon us move 
The unions born of Hatred that wears the mask 

of Love, 
The suicide of Freedom, the despotism of 

strikes, 



98 THE OLD HOME. 

The leagues of tyrannous masters, the bludgeons 

and the pikes, 
The dynamite, the gallows to drop men down 

to hell, 
And mutual harms too many for any tongue to 

tell; 
And, in more weighty matters than we to-day 

deplore, 
Wealth cometh in to ruin what Wealth can ne'er 

restore. 



BOSTON COMMON. 



— ? 



A LEGISLATIVE HEARING, A. D. 1 9 

(Green-room of the State House. Committee on Rapid 
[Rabid?] Transit in Session. Various Persons loq.) 

"/^OOD gracious! See the fossil nobs pour 
^^ out the elevator, 
Like smoke when chimneys be afire! Come, 
come! It beats all Natur'!" 

"An' them as can't set foot in that, comes 
puffin' up the stairs! 
There's no room left on the settees." 

"Waall, can't you fetch some chairs?" 

"Not I. Jest let 'em stand for once, an' try 
how good it feels 
To hev' a rapid transit on each other's toes an' 
heels. 

99 



100 BOSTON COMMON. 

This here congested district, it '11 learn 'em some, 

I guess, — 
Squeeze sentiment out on 'em all, or teach 'em 

to show less." 

"Oh, sentiment! Ah, sentiment! My senti- 
ment is this: 

I don't care half a d for 'em, for all they 

clap or hiss. 

I ain't a-goin' to walk a step, as I'm a man 
alive, 

In this free land, while I can git a ten-cent ride 
for five." 

" Waall, let 'em talk, an' talk it out; we ain't 
goin' to be fooled. 

We'll hev' their Common soon or late; our 
wires is laid an' pulled. — 

We '11 only net it over-head an' tunnel under- 
ground, 

An' trench it right across, an' pare it gradooal 
round an' round. 



BOSTON COMMON. ioi 

You know the tale? A peddler come, — that 

peddler's name was Stout, — 
A little woman's petticoats he cut all round 

about; 
He cut her little petticoats up to her little 

knees, 
All by the king's highway, so sly, till she begun 

to freeze. 
The little woman was asleep, but when she 

waked did cry, 
'Oh goodness! Mercy on me! What? This 

surely is not I!'" 

Rap, rap. "The hearing will commence, — as 

soon as we can hear. — 
Remonstrant speakers, if they please, will 

straightway now appear. 
Name, madam?" 

"Missus Raffarty; an', wid respict to yees, 
I'd ax yees l'ave the Common be; beca'se yer 
honours sees, 



102 BOSTON COMMON. 

In out-o'-works an' holidays an' sultry nights 

an' noons, 
It kapes me Dinnis an' me Pat from out o' thim 

saloons." 

"Your name, sir?" 

" 'Name ' ? T is Price. (To me, it sounds a 

little strange 
To hear it asked. At any rate it 's not unknown 

on 'Change.) 
Well, I 've my country-place, clipped lawns and 

foreign shrubs enough 
And green-houses to please my wife, and all 

that sort of stuff. 
The country is not bad. I like the city best in 

May; 
And hitherto, up to the last, do I in Boston 

stay. 
But, if the Common's going to be to railroad- 
tracks laid down, 



BOSTON COMMON. 103 

I think I may prefer to pay my taxes out of 
town." 

"I am a banished Boston dame; but some- 
times still I come 
To look upon the dear old place that used to be 

my home. 
'T is changing more and more; but if I see the 

Common, then 
I thrill, and feel that I have reached its own 

true heart again. 
My youth and health and wealth are gone. My 

horseback days are done. 
I 'm glad of cars to carry me where I was wont 

to run; 
But, while I can, I '11 manage yet to foot it, at a 

pinch, 
Before I'll ever give my vote to cut that down an 

inch; 
And when I can't, I'll stay away, remember it 

in prayer, 
And say in West Mosquitoville, 'Thank God, 

the Common's there!'" 



104 BOSTON COMMON. 

"Name, sir?" 

"St. Leger." — 

"Silence there. This speaker has the floor. — 
Mr. St. Leger, please be brief; you see there's 
many more." 

"I'm not a sentimentalist. I haven't much 

to say. 
I 'm going to tell one little thing that happened 

one spring day: 
I'd been in State Street, hours; and tired enough, 

and rather cross, 
No wonder if I was perhaps. A man, — his 

name was Floss, — 
He's dead and gone, — but he had been endors- 
ing for a friend. 
The friend had failed; you know, of course, how 

those things often end. 
Friend owed my firm a pretty sum. Floss said 

he could and would, 
Though it should cost him all he had, be sure 

to make us good, 



BOSTON COMMON. 105 

But asked for time to save himself from ruin. 

We said, No. 
Across the Common, as it chanced, my home- 
ward way did go; 
Arid as I walked and schemed and fumed, I 

heard a lively noise, 
I raised my head and turned, and saw a jolly 

ring of boys 
At marbles, squatting, kneeling, down upon the 

mellow earth. 
I nearer drew; and, as I watched, my wrath was 

changed to mirth. 
I joined them, begged a snap or two; (I was a 

famous shot 
In my young days;) I snapped and won, 

divided all I got 
Among them, rose, and went my way. Then 

Memory sprang to show, 
Into her magic-lantern slipped, a slide of long 

ago, 
When Floss was up, and I was down and stood 

alone and cried, 



106 BOSTON COMMON. 

While other urchins marbles played, that very 

path beside. 
My dirty little fingers in my ragged pocket 

groped, 
And only found a hole whereby my bowlers had 

eloped, 
My alleys, cents, and all I had ! Then suddenly 

along 
Pranced ' Flossy/ spick and span, but stopped 

to ask me what was wrong. 
My other pocket from his own he stocked, then 

frisked away, 
Nor stayed for thanks. — I tossed all night. 

Betimes the following day, 
I hurried down in town to meet my partners 

chafed with loss, 
And said to them, ' I've changed my mind; we 

don't shut down on Floss.' 
' Why, what's the matter?' 'Well, — not much; 

he's honest, if a fool. — 
I '11 be his surety, — and besides, we know the 

Golden Rule.' 



BOSTON COMMON. 107 

He slaved and starved, and saved enough to 

pay us and provide 
For his old mother, — sent for me, and thanked 

me when he died." 

"Mis' Lander." — 

"Mrs. Lander your committee will address." 

"I want the Common, — all on it, — and 

never any less. 
My residence, Blind Alley 't is, — what some 

folks calls ' the slums.' — 
When all night long the blessed babe 's be'n 

screechin' with his gums, 
An' I git up at dawn to rense an' wring, my 

brains, they bake 
That sometimes I 'm most fit to bile a infant by 

mistake. 
I hain't scarce room to step around, when 

round the clo'es is piled, 
Nor set my foot upon the floor 'thout treadin' 

on a child. 



108 BOSTON COMMON. 

My place is stived at best; but when it's full 
o' steam an' suds! — 

I tell ye then I'm glad there's one with shade- 
trees, grass, an' buds. 

' You, Emogene,' I says, ' take Bub an' Sis an' 
little Sal; 

An' let him sleep, an' let 'em play, all pootty in 
the Mall.'" 

" Judge Blackstone?" 

"Yes; and I suppose I scarce was looked 

for here, — 
A busy, dry old stick of law, and sometimes 

called severe. — 
(Dare say I am; for in the courts I've sat out 

half my time, 
To see the worst side of mankind and deal 

with sin and crime.) 
But when I leave the legal bench for one in 

light and air 
Upon the green old Common, — rest my soul 

and body where 



BOSTON COMMON. 109 

I used to sport, a heedless child, — my heart 

grows soft and warm 
Towards all the little rascals that about the 

Frog Pond swarm. — 
'T is easy to go wrong in youth. I dread to swell 

the ranks 
Of jail-birds with offenders small. To break 

them of their pranks, 
I vow I'll turn them over unto Birtwell when 

I can. 
Ahem! I've known an impish boy to make a 

worthy man." 

"My name is Dole, — a widower. — I have 

one child, — a girl, — 
And may not have her long, — my dove ! my 

darling! oh, my pearl! — 
She pines and wastes and coughs and gasps. 

If we was folks of wealth, 
And I could take her to the beach or mountains, 

for her health, 
I think she might be better; she believes she 

' should grow strong ' ! 



HO BOSTON COMMON. 

But, when the summer comes, the nights are 

stifling, and so long! 
And all our little comfort is, to let her breathe 

the breeze 
On the cool Common, sit and see the moonlight 

and the trees." 

"Rev. Dr. Burnup?" 

"Sir, the same. I am not here to preach; 
But I've been called upon to-day for some short, 

simple speech. 
I think the Common should be spared, because 

it does us good, — 
You, me, and all of us, — in ways not always 

understood. 
For me, when at my desk I sit, I take dark views 

at times. 
The world looks black; the newspapers are foul 

with hideous crimes. 
I choose my text, ' Depart, ye cursed.' Then 

is some message said: 



BOSTON COMMON. in 

I'm wanted, to go forth and pray beside some 

sufferer's bed; 
And as I go the Common o'er, the sky the 

boughs looks through 
Down on me, as with pitying heaven's own 

tender eyes of blue. 
The five sharp points of Calvin sink like needles, 

out of sight 
In my dear help-meet's pin-cushion, no more to 

come to light. 
And, as the long walks lead away, grim musings 

me release; 
I think on holy wisdom's ways of pleasantness 

and peace. 
And when I 've told of pardoning love, on peni- 
tence that waits, 
And Him Who died to open wide heaven's 

hospitable gates, 
And I return in milder mood unto my brighter 

home, 
I scratch the first text out to write, ' Blest of 

My Father, come, 



H2 BOSTON COMMON. 

Ye Who have visited My sick, and given My 

hungry food, 
The naked clad, with succour by My prisoned 

brethren stood.'" 



"Name?" 

"Bromfield." 

"Pardon, sir; to-day, it's getting pretty 
late," — 

"When men are hard on ninety, sir, they 

cannot always wait. — 
I am sl man of sentiment, — because I 'm not a 

clod ; — 
My sentiment, it is the love of country, Man, 

and God. 
I've seen the best this earth can show. I've 

floated on the Nile, — 
Where Time stands still, and things are left in 

peace, a little while. — 



BOSTON COMMON. 113 

I've climbed on Alp and Apennine, and gath- 
ered grapes in Spain, 

And seen sweet Capri's grotto ope upon a sap- 
phire main. 

I've strolled at Venice o'er the Square of gor- 
geous old St. Mark. 

My steeds I've often trotted in a stately 
London park. 

I'll not deny that fairer sights are elsewhere 
seen than here; 

But, as our Common, there is none to my old 
eyes so dear, — 

(A needful refuge, when the cars are raging 
through the town, 

With privilege to keep, and run the population 
down.) — 

'T is trimmed and tamed, not what it was; the 
dells are few or none; 

The double-terraced bank above the upper 
Mall is gone, 

Where wide the ancient elm-trees stretched 
their venerable toes, 



114 . BOSTON COMMON. 

Nor dreamed that to electric poles should yield 

their goodly rows. 
The clover and the buttercups, my little sisters 

found 
And used to lay for ' carpets ' on the green 

enamelled ground, 
Are like those pretty play-fellows forever from 

it fled; 
But changes now are everywhere, and I shall 

soon be dead. 
No matter. When I am, I crave to babes un- 
born to leave 
Unspoiled the happy heritage our fathers did 

receive 
From grandsires proved our future needs too 

wisely to foreknow, 
That we should dare, with reverence small, their 

past away to throw. 
(My own dear boys once played, then drilled, 

upon that sacred plain; 
And thence I saw them march away, not to 

return again. 




King's Chapel 



Il6 BOSTON COMMON. 

For us who can recall the war, 't is hallowed by 
the beat, 

Forevermore, of such young brave and patriotic 
feet.) 

The Granary is ravaged. Gray King's Chapel 
dubious stands, 

And fears from year to year the blows of sacri- 
legious hands. 

With dwindling nurseries, scant of sons to bear 
the good old names, 

And to remind the times at least of their fore- 
fathers' fames, 

With emptied pews and levelled graves, we of 
so much bereft, 

Oh, let us only cling the more to all that we 
have left! 

Too much of woe and hate there is. The pride, 
and wants, of life 

Are setting more and more the hearts of neigh- 
bours here at strife. 

Then let, for centuries to come, among them 
still be found 



BOSTON COMMON. 117 

One common treasure, common boast, one 

common pleasure-ground. 
Thrice hill-crowned mother, if 't were true, too 

true beyond a doubt, 
That your own matchless founder-breed were 

doomed and dying out, 
Still hither bring your foster-sons, — Mac, 0', 

Hans, Jacob, Pierre; — 
Teach those who'd fill our place, that they 

must our traditions share. — 
Be mourning thus to robes of praise, to beauty, 

ashes turned ! — 
I move that sine die, sir, this meeting be ad- 
journed." 



SHE SAYS TO ME, SAYS ANN. 

TXTE hail from Boston; so, last spring, 
I says to Ann, says I, 
"I can't stan' not to see the place once more 
before I die." 

An' she says, "Go; an' see't for both; an' 
lay up all ye can 
To tell me when ye 're here again," she says to 
me, says Ann. 

I didn't know she'd hankered so, the years 

we 'd lived out West, 
For all we'd left. Old folks, I s'pose, doos like 

old homes the best. 
An' now, she talked on 't half the night, — the 

fall o' friendly feet, 
An' cheerful rumble of the wheels along the 

pebbled street, 

118 



SHE SAYS TO ME, SAYS ANN. 119 

An' of the air that used to come, upon a sultry 

day, 
An' sweep all through it, salt an' cool, from 

Massachusetts Bay. 
I bid her, for a keepsake, choose what she should 

like to have. 
She wanted jest a buttercup from off her 

mother's grave. 

I was n't gone no great 'f a spell. I come 
back with a sigh. 
"Dear soul, there ain't no Boston left!" I says 
to Ann, says I. 

"Don't tell me so! Another fire?" she says 
to me, says Ann. 

"No, wus," I says; "the city's fell into the 

hands o' Man. 
They've filled it up an' built it up. They've 

tore an' digged it down. 
'T ain't hardly more, forevermore, than any 

other town!" 



120 



SHE SAYS TO ME, SAYS ANN. 



"Who ever heared o' sech a thing, from 
Be'rsheby to Dan! — 
The lay locks roun' the Hancock House?" she 
says to me, says Ann. 




"They're turned to starin' stone," I says, 
"that made old Beacon Street, 
To eyes an' nose o' rich an' poor, so summerlike 
an' sweet, 



SHE SAYS TO ME, SAYS ANN. 12 1 

When, 'Lection-day, the governor come forth 

to take his chair 
Upon the Mall, with boys an' buns, all in the 

open air." 

"The Common where we children played?" 

"In this here latter age, 
They've had a gineral land-slide there, an' put 
it in a cage." 

"But then you saw the Paddock Elms, where 
fust we went to walk, — 
The day we knew each other's mind, — an' 
talked as lovers talk?" 

"I saw — some shudderin' to the axe, — the 
rest along the ground! 
The crowd stood dumb like mournin' men, or 
cussed an' swore around." 

"So 'cussed be he,' — among the Jews you 
know the Scriptur's ran, — 
"'His neighbour's landmark, who removes,'" 
she says to me, says Ann. 



122 SHE SAYS TO ME, SAYS ANN. 

"But then you heared the Sabbath bells, — you 

j'ined in praise an' prayer, 
To meetin', in your father's pew, in grand old 

Brattle Square?" 

"There wa'n't no bells, nor pews, nor folks. 
A bare an' crumblin' wall 
Stan's gapin' in the holy place, a-totterin' to its 
fall!" 

"The rebels never got so fur to work with 
shell an' shot?" 

"The ' good society' had sold the old, the 
sacred spot. 

I hurried off, in hopes to reach your mother's 
own Old South 

In time to hear some word o' grace from out some 
pious mouth. 

'T was all a swarm o' clerks an' mails an' con- 
stables to drag 

A Judas out, they jest had caught a-stealin' 
from a bag!" 




The Paddock Elms 



124 SHE SAYS TO ME, SAYS ANN. 

"The Saviour so the Temple found, denied 

with dross an' beeves, 
An' said, ' My Father's house of prayer, ye 've 

made a den of thieves!'" 
She stopped, then asked, "My mother's grave?" 

I could n 't bear her face. 
I looked away; "Oh, wife," I says, "I could n't 

find the place! 
They've pulled the peaceful grave-stones up; 

an' all along the edge 
Of a intrudin' gravel-walk, they've set 'em for a 

hedge!" 

Her head into her wrinkled hands she dropped 

as ef in pain, 
An' turned her speech to other things, when 

she could speak again: 
"How long," she says, "O Lord, how long? 

How long shall men like these 
Cut down our people's character with all their 

dear old trees? 




Brattle Square Church 



126 . SHE SAYS TO ME, SAYS ANN. 

Are we a tribe of prodigals, — an orphaned 

nation, — cast 
Away and disinherited forever of the Past? 
Two hundred years unto our land, in vain have 

come and gone; 
'T is bare of tokens of old time as any quarry-stone . 
To see the traces of our race, our countrymen 

must roam 
Beyond the seas; they cannot have antiquities 

at home. 
The footsteps that the fathers leave, the chil- 
dren shuffle out. 
What wonder that the Pilgrims' faith gives place 

to sneerin' doubt, 
Sence reverence, shattered to the heart, shook 

with a deadly shock 
Before the sacrilegious hand that blasted 

Plymouth Rock? — 
Would not some loyal two or three, to meet their 

Master stay 
In houses reared by saints of yore, though 

Fashion goes away? — 




The Old South 



128 SHE SAYS TO ME, SAYS ANN. 

Still leave, ef only for a sign o' Faith left in the 

lurch, 
Upon its consecrated ground, each old forsaken 

church ; 
An' let its awful dumbness preach till, where 

the town began, 
It ends, — in truth an' soberness," — she says 

to me, says Ann. 



NOTES TO HARVEST-HOME. 

PAGE 

Pot age aux Pantoufles 2 

Addressed to a certain good composer, on his 
sending me some of his music, married to verse 
of whose immortality I was not fully assured. 
— So I wrote then. — 

And now that the interesting musician, ac- 
complished gentleman, and dear and merry 
old friend is gone, I include the lines in my 
last volume, believing that he would like to find 
them there, glad to remember that they 
amused him, and grieved that we can laugh 
over them together, in this world, no more. 

A Pruned Branch 23 

"He purgeth [i. e. pruneth] it." The above 
translation of the word usually rendered 
"purgeth" is given on the authority of 
Thayer's "Lexicon of the Greek New Tes- 
tament." 

The Procession of the Days 26 

There waits the coffin. 

"The Day will come and the coffin." 

Robertson of Brighton. 
129 



ISO NOTES TO HARVEST-HOME. 

PAGE 

The Light-House 31 

Thy God and ours be all in all 

"Then cometh the end, when he shall have 
delivered up the kingdom to God, even the 
Father. . . . And when all things shall be 
subdued unto him, then shall the Son also 
himself be subject unto Him that put all 
things under him, that God may be all in 

all " 

1 Corinthians xv. 24 et seq. 

Dolores 38 

"Do not look at life's long sorrow 
See how small each moment's pain." 

Adelaide Anne Procter. 

Dreaming and Waking 47 

That long my evening star had been 

The lamp of the man she loved " had 
long been the evening star" of poor Caroline 
Helstonein "Shirley." 

Yearnings 75 

As some kind leech will 

"John Welsh, my wife's father, [physician 
and surgeon], riding along one day on his mul- 



NOTES TO HARVEST-HOME. 13 1 

PAGE 

tifarious business, noticed a poor wounded 
partridge fluttering and struggling about, 
wing or leg, or both, broken by some sports- 
man's lead. He gathered up the poor par- 
tridge, looped it gently in his handkerchief, 
brought it home, and, by careful splint and 
salve and other treatment, had it soon on 
wing again, and sent it forth healed." 

Carlyle's " Reminiscences." 

The Moulder 78 

Take thine own way 

"Yet take Thy way, for sure Thy way is 
best " Herbert. 

A Burnt Sacrifice 8$ 

See the story of Luther Holbert and his 
wife, quoted from the "Vicksburg Herald" in 
the "Springfield Weekly Republican" of 
March nth, 1904. 

Little Pepita 86 

Little Pepita was shot, to-day 

"Between 6 and 7 o'clock in the afternoon, 
a native child, a girl of nine years of age, while 
running along one of the public streets, was 



132 NOTES TO HARVEST-HOME. 

ordered to halt by a sentinel, and, failing to 
stop, was shot and killed." 

"From the Report of James Ross, 'an 
American, the civil governor of Ambos 
Camarinos.'" 

" Springfield Daily Republican," May 
21st, 1902. 



MAY 26 1913 



